Break of Dawn
by lost2darkness
Summary: Morn, a disgraced orc, finds a new calling to eliminate the growing vampire threat in Skyrim.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_:

The old orc smiled wearily, as the young bard approached. He had heard the strange whispers of an orc that had joined the legions of the Dawnguard at a critical time in Skyrim's history, preventing a vampiric take-over of all the land. Of course, the timing had been unfortunate - it was not long after that the Dragonborn had saved all of Tamriel from Alduin - and the songs had been sung for decades now in celebration of their heroics. But this young man decided that the world needed something new, and the story of a disgraced orc turned paladin seemed incredible enough to bring him fame and coin in his travels - and so he had traveled all the way from Solitude to the quiet Stronghold of Largashbur, to speak to the orc named Morn.

She was still tall, and broad, despite her age - but the years had undoubtedly taken their toll. Her right eye, milky white, and her face showing hardly a hint untouched by blade or claw - the marks on her pale green skin told enough that she had been living on the edge for much of her life. One side of her face was mottled, as if burned badly many years ago. It restricted her movement, and with her tusks, the bard had trouble discerning her particular expression. Her hair had greyed, what little of it was visible - she had shaved her head bare, save for a small notch of hair from the back of her head. Her clothing was practical and simple, well-worn. On her back, most magnificent of all, a large Greatsword, that seemed to give off a faint glowing light in the darkness of the hut. It was almost out of place compared to the harsh design and color of the rest of the materials in the stronghold.

"Sit down, boy." Her voice was hard, like all orcs, but the tone was less formal. "You're making me nervous."

"I've never been in a Stronghold before.." The young Nord awkwardly looked from Morn to the others in the Longhouse - some watching him, others going about their duties. "Thank you for letting me come here to speak to you."

"It's rare that an outsider is allowed in at all - but Ogrul told me about you after he'd been in Riften to trade." She looked to the stout young male, who grunted wordlessly in response. "Your questions reminded me of the old days. And I would not mind sharing my story, so that it is not forgotten. I hope you are comfortable, bard, because it is a long tale to tell."


	2. Markarth

I decided that day I had to leave the Stronghold. With just my own armor and weapons, a sturdy shield and an axe crafted by my mother, I walked out of Dunikh Yal, with no pride, for having failed my people. I would not try again until I could prove myself worthy in their eyes, and the eyes of Malacath.

My journey from High Rock to Skyrim had not gone as planned. In our party, we were three - my half-brother and my father's third wife - to escort - and me, the bride-to-be of Chief Burguk. I had long ago accepted this lot in life - as every female orc does. Donned in my own armor and the weapons from my mother, I felt ready to prove my mettle and contribute to the Stronghold as a strong fourth wife to a prosperous chief. On our trip my will was tested, and my companions and I were overcome by a band of vampires while we slept. Of course, we fought as hard as we could, but we were outnumbered and unaccustomed to fighting necromancy. My heavy armor was no match for the draining spells, and every encounter I'd had against wild beasts did not prepare me for this. The following day, when I finally regained consciousness, I found my brother and stepmother dead - and my dowry gone. Worst of all - I had failed my people, by not defeating my foes - or dying in the process. With such a disgraceful burden, and now no dowry, I was not welcomed as family to this new Stronghold. And I knew, with certainty, my own family would have disowned me with even less hesitation. I think I was allowed to stay and work in the mines for a time out of pity - Gharol, the forge-wife had a daughter close to my age who had abandoned the stronghold not long ago. It was as I left that she handed me a finely-made sword, to deliver to her.

"My daughter can be found in the mines at Karthwasten." her voice held the name in disgust. "Will you give this to her for me?"

To an outsider the blade would have looked like any other well-made weapon, but to an orc, it was clear that this was a heartfelt message. I felt as if it was what my own mother would have handed to me, had she seen what I had become. I took the blade gravely, and wrapped it in the pelt she had handed it to me in. "I'll make sure she gets it."

I walked out of Dushnikh-Yal, and never looked back.

Karthwasten was a quaint settlement, black smoke pouring from the smelter. When I arrived, the situation was tense, and I waited patiently for the men facing off to finish their argument. I was not one to run from a fight but I was not interested in petty brawls. As they dispersed, I approached the only orc present, who looked over me suspiciously. Wordlessly, I handed her the sword, and she opened the bundle it was held in.

"So that's it then…" Her voice was as soft as an orc's could be. She recovered, meeting my eyes. "Here, you deserve something for your troubles."

I shook my head. "I deserve no coin - I would like to earn my way, if I can speak to the owner of the mine."

"Mine's closed. Talk to the Breton if you want to know more." She pointed at a short, balding man in fancy clothes, and turned. "I need to be alone."

She walked away from me slowly, clearly pre-occupied with her mother's message, and sought out comfort from a plan-looking Nord. I had my suspicions, but there were more important things to do than question an outcast.

The Breton man introduced himself as Ainethach, and repeated the orc's words, that the mine was closed due to the intimidation of mercenaries I'd seen earlier, hired by the Silverblood family. I didn't follow the situation too closely, to be honest, because such petty discussions felt below me, but I must have looked to be a brute in my own armor that he had hope.

"If you can get those men to leave, I can re-open Sauranach mine. I'd be more than happy to hire you if you can help me, and you could even keep half of the ore you extract. Otherwise, there's nothing I can offer."

Orcs have long been sought out to fight the battles of others, though this would be a first mercenary job for me. It felt a twinge of shame, knowing full well that this may be my only means of making coin now. But I wasn't about to squander what may be my best opportunity at finding a roof above my head and service in the mines - at least that I could do to honor Malacath.

I placed my valuables in a barrel behind one of the homes - a meager few septims that the orc-daughter had given me, some food and my bedroll. I placed my helmet atop my head, and unsheathed my axe. Ainethach and his Breton brothers watched me with a curious but far from trusting eye. The guard at the entrance of the closed mine appraised me with suspicion.

"I want to talk with your master."

He laughed. "Talk? Your people don't talk."

I placed my axe back in his sheath, and as a smug grin broke across his face I balled my armored hand into a fist and punched him square in the jaw. I saw him stagger back a foot, before slumping to the ground, before shoving open the doors of the mine. I wasn't intent on murdering sellswords, but I had very little tolerance for their japes in that state of mind.

It was another minute or so before I came across another of the sellswords. They were hardly more than glorified bandits - no coordination, no real training. I managed to send the first flying with a well-placed shove from my shield-arm and the other I cut down in two strokes.

"Where is your master?" I demanded of the third.

He pointed down the hallway, and I met no more resistance until I stood before a slightly more well-dressed individual, doing some sort of gambling game to bide the time. He gave me a skeptical look. "What do you want?"

"Get out." I wasn't really angry as much as I was gruff. "Mine needs to re-open."

"Get rid of the Breton for me, and you can work right away." He laughed. "Or I can cut you down where you stand - you may have yourself some fancy armor, but I know we outnumber you, and we will bring you down."

Knowing what I do now, I may have taken him up on that offer - but as it stood, I wanted to prove my strength, and a challenge of this sort was too appealing to turn down.

"I'd like to see you try." It was the first smile I'd cracked in weeks.

The battle was short. My armor did, indeed, serve me well, and in the end, three men lay dead, the last kneeling before me in submission. The thrill of battle is deeply rooted in our upbringing, and I felt then, empowered in a small way. And now I knew I had time now - to work in service of Malacath, and try to find a way to return to His graces. I could not shirk from a fight ever again - and I did not intend to. I would not be humiliated again.

* * *

Karthwasten did not exactly welcome me with open arms. Although Ainethach was grateful for my interference, his family was not as keen on my contributions - I knew they were sore about the amount of ore I kept for myself, and argued that my services had been paid for now twice-over. That I was going to mine too much for myself and leave them with an even worse state of existence. While I did amass a fair amount of wealth in the weeks I stayed there, I had no real interest in accumulating a fortune. Gold was a means to an end, a means to survival when you no longer had a community to support you.

It wasn't long before I began to make excursions to Markarth, a very fortified city, and easily the largest population center I'd ever seen in my short life. I had laden my pack full of as much silver as I could feasibly carry, along with my full set of armor. As I look back, I suppose that any bandits hiding in those hills would be more hesitant to lighten the load of a well-armed Orc than of the average passer-by. I would have likely made for fairly easy prey though, had they been strategic enough.

In the city itself I sought out the blacksmith first, a means to relieve myself of the silver I carried and of the armor I had brought with me and no longer deserved to keep.

A young Imperial lad approached me as I stood near the forge, inquiring gently about my things. Before he could finish his sentence, a grizzled voice interrupted him. "Tacitus, let me take this one."

The young man's suave voice wavered and he stepped aside. Eye to eye I met another outcast.

"Ghorza gra-Bagol - I see you still wear your own armor?" She, like most of us, was straight and to the point. "Are you representing one of the strongholds? I do not know you."

"I was last at Dushnikh Yal, but I am no longer honored blood-kin." I bowed my head, answering respectfully.

"Ceremony is not needed here - we're both outsiders." she placed a hand on my shoulder, feeling the metal of the armor. "What do you need to relieve yourself of, sister?"

It was a small comfort to turn over my armor to Ghorza. She, at least, understood it's worth, and would re-fit it for someone worthy. The shield and axe I kept - reminders to not back down and to stand strong. They were gifts - and gifts I would not part with so easily. I asked for little coin, only to be allowed use of the forge as I needed. Ghorza did not ask for my story, but kindly offered me a smithing apron and faded, but still functional dress to work in so I would not have to purchase new clothing. It felt wonderful to be able to work again, and after carefully crafting some jewelry from the silver I had procured, I was able to purchase what I needed for myself .

I spent the better part of two days working the steel. It was inferior quality to the orichalcum that I had used in the past, but with guidance from Ghorza on how local steel was shaped and customary appearance, I was pleased enough with the result.

Ghorza seemed pleased. "A shame that I do not need an apprentice…" she grimaced.

I allowed myself a smile. "I would certainly appreciate an opportunity to work with you. Or if you know of anyone else here that could use my arm."

Ghorza nodded. "My brother, Moth gro-Bagol, can be found in the Jarl's palace - works the forge there. Perhaps he will find use of you. Or may know someone who can use your help. You look enough of a warrior - mercenary work might suit you."

I nodded, though felt unsure about doing another's dirty work. In the end, I could not return to live forever at Karthwasten, unwelcome as my presence was, and I needed a way to prove to Malacath that I was worthy. Outside of my culture, the only way I could do so would be to fight. Perhaps Ghorza gra-Gabol was right - mercenary work might be exactly what would suit me.


End file.
